


Sweetie Pie

by IntravenousDollhouse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dubious Consent, Kink Fiction, M/M, Sopor Slime, Stuffing, Weight-gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntravenousDollhouse/pseuds/IntravenousDollhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamzee needs to give Dave a dose of perspective.  There's enough sopor slime left for the task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetie Pie

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This fic does contain stuffing and slight weight-gain. If that's not your thing, turn back now! : )

***

 

“Dude, what are you even waiting for?”

It’s not meant to be a challenge, exactly. he knows what you’re about to do. He’s understood for a while now -- even before you met face-to-face. 

The pies specifically might be a small surprise to him. Fuck, what they do to him is going to be a surprise to you. Not many of your friends even fully understood the effects of ingesting sopor slime until they met you. Most of them still aren’t entirely sure what it’s done to you -- to your think-pan. They’ll never understand, and you don’t want them to. To do that, they’d have to try it. You don’t want your friends to experience that; to have what you’ve had and then watch as it disintegrates along with the putrefied dregs of flesh sloshing around inside your skull.

You knew that death was preferable to such extreme disillusionment -- so you took care of things for them. Because that’s what good friends fucking do. In your first moments of true lucidity, you knew everything. No more of that messiah shit. 

Since no one came to save you -- to save your friends -- you’d taken over. 

“I’m just lettin’ a motherfucker get his comfort on. All being to let a bro get fucking cozy.”

His hair is a shade darker with grime; with what a certain friend of yours would consider ‘candy red.’ It sure does look tasty, and when he replies, it takes a great deal of willpower for you to hold back from sinking your teeth into more of that gummy-pink wrapping of his to spill out all the cherry-gushers deliciousness inside.

“Well, I’m as comfortable as can be, man. Take my word for it. This might as well be Snoop’s personal bitch-crib and I’m his number one shorty.”

His metaphors are slipping -- as far as you can tell, that is. It’s all mainly nonsense to you anyways. 

Dave’s always been better at spinning words to his advantage when he’s typing, as opposed to speaking. It’s like the keyboard becomes his turn-table -- all part of the same mix of elements that synthesize his persona; his shitty defense mechanism. Just one big cliche is all.

You don’t ignore him, but you don’t respond verbally either. Instead, you kneel down to his level; right up in his space. The ragged breathing he tries to steady tickles your face with a tangy, anxious scent. You’ve never been more seduced by the smell of fear in your entire life. Karkat came close, as you can recall, but even he didn’t smell quite this good. 

Maybe it’s a human thing.

The floor is cold. There’s pie after pie stacked up behind your captive. They create gooey, ominous doll-towers and the image makes you smile because, hey, you’ve got your own little doll here ready to be played with.

He doesn’t speak as you prod his face, feeling up his mushy pink flesh. Troll skin is tougher than human skin. Not hard; but resilient. The fact that Dave -- motherfuckin’ Dave Strider -- is so soft and unprotected, kind of messes with your mind.

“Shit, I get that this is like fucking national geographic to you, but are you really just going to crouch there and stare at me forever?” 

You give him your best toothy grin and crawl towards the first few pies, dragging them over. The slime’s a little off, since it’s been sitting and waiting for this moment so long, but it’ll be fine. Dandy as it can be, at least. You’ve eaten rancid sopor before and never noticed a real difference. It’s poison either way.

“You’d best to be all opening up wide, my cotton-candy motherfucker.”

There’s no immediate surrender, but he doesn’t clamp his jaw tight or turn away either. Just shoots your grin down with his own ironic-as-fuck smile. It’s not often that he smiles, as far as you’ve witnessed, so for a moment you’re genuinely unsettled. He sniffs out your sudden trepidation and laps it up like it’s the finest fucking lusus milk a bro ever did drink.

“So that’s the sopor slime. It’s every bit as shitty-sci-fi as I’d hoped and dreamed.”

You’re not precisely sure what he means by that, but you can take an educated guess that it’s something derisive. It’s not like you’re going to take it personally. You didn’t invent sopor slime, after all. That shit’s some other motherfucker’s responsibility. 

Instead you just shrug and crouch directly in front of him again. Now you have a few pies sitting beside you. It’s a good start. If everything goes well -- and he doesn’t miraculously vomit the entire hemospectrum and then die -- he’ll be consuming those pies like it’s the end of the world or something. 

You don’t rise to any of his impotent bait, or self-comfort, or whatever it is he’s attempting to indulge in. One of your long, nodular digits is already probing the pie, ready to trace Dave’s lips and tongue with his first taste of sopor.

There’s an ambrosial hint of distress reflected in his irises -- the ones you took vindictive glee in exposing. He’s straining against the bonds subtly, and hasn’t quite lost his cool, but you’ll push him to it. You’ll push him past all his limits.

“You’re pretty quiet, dude. Got no more of that spastic-voodoo clownmurder shit? Or are you just fucking shy all of a sudden?”

His words are meant to probe -- meant to be invasive. You’d be agitated, but you’ve finally found your cool. It’s yours now. You up and stole it away from him and now it is in your sole possession. 

“This is to be savored. One of those rare motherfucking moments to treasure the shit out of, you know?”

You remove your finger from the pie, all coated in the thick and wonderfully gluey spools of slime-ribbon, and prod at his mouth. 

“I thought I told you to be opening up?” 

His lips remained sealed. Defiant.

“I’m about to tell at you something real important, bro. Gonna illuminate your mind with my business that you’re going to be all up to partaking in.”

There’s a moment where he seems to consider opening his mouth; a minute twitch of the lips. You just barely notice it as you prepare to pry them apart. 

However, he remains unyielding until your sharp claw draws blood -- then a hiss forces its way out of him and in that very brief second you slide the other finger in his mouth.

“I’m all ready for tooth-nips if that’s what would make a brother feel better.”

Dave doesn’t bite you. 

Saliva pools up around your finger. It’s hot and wet and slippery. Feels like all that blood, in a way. The thought is jarring. It comes with too many images, and sounds; everything is too overwhelming, and you need the hateful slime. 

But instead, you take a heavy breath inwards, tasting the muggy air between yourself and Dave; and decide that he can take it all in for you.

“Listen at this motherfucker, and get prepared. I’m not best at being all patient sometimes. Suddenly I got this fuckin’ urge up in my pump to just be tossing the pies down into you all fast and steady.”

Strained, moist panting. Focused red. The sweet, saccharine droplets of blood spattering the ground. It’s all delirious, and then you realize you’re shoving the last bit of pie into his mouth. One tin down. The mess of coagulated and viscous acid is trailing down his chin, all mixed up with his sugarblood.

“Hold it,” he mutters vaguely as you dip your hand into the second pie, “I...” He trails off, irises falling to stare at the floor. 

“Are you seeing them? Transfixing all on those circus lights?” 

You’re excited, because even though he’s dazed, something is definitely happening. Dave is about to show you exactly what happens to humans -- what happens to him -- when all the miraculous lies rain down like fairy-dust. 

His eyes snap back to lucidity and he’s tilting his head towards you with this deviant laziness that makes you smile fondly.

“I see a lot of fuckin’ lights, that’s for sure.” 

His voice is odd. It’s still calm and low, but there’s a cruel edge beneath the languid waves. A strangled gurgle comes up from his belly and you can feel your own lips contort into a venomous smirk, because that noise sounds like hunger -- like a personal victory.

You’re still met with a trace of resistance while shoving honest handfuls of pie into his mouth, but it’s not enough to prevent you from pushing past his gag reflex. Another tin is effectively emptied of its corrosive brew. 

Dave groans unhappily when you start in on the third pie, but by the time you get to the fourth, he’s sucking your fingers clean. 

“Gettin’ all that eager on for me? Motherfuck, yeah...” 

You’re resting your body against his sturdier form. The bindings around his feet and hands are coming loose, and it’s allowing for a minuscule amount of freedom. Curiosity grips you tight, and before you know it, you’ve untied him.

He attempts to stand on quivering legs. You’re there to catch him and pin him back down. Fuck ropes; you’ve got a natural restraint system that’s significantly superior. 

Dave shifts beneath you, wincing when you put too much of your weight on his distended stomach.

“Watch it, man. This belly’s tighter than a fuckin’ bongo. Bounce a quarter off it, thing’ll shoot off into unending space.” He laughs feverishly, and there’s a sad vibe coming off his words.

The fingers you’re running through his hair are what you use to tip his head back. Exposed neck. It’s ready to be sliced. Add another nugbone to the collection. 

No.

“You’re not finished yet, brother.”

His stomach is so impossibly hard that it’s a miracle it doesn’t burst open and spill all that slime and syrup everywhere. You run a hand across the heated expanse with apprehension -- something typically foreign to you. It’s not entirely pleasant in the way that his obvious discomfort is. You’re more accustomed to fantasizing about soft flesh -- pliant flesh. An ample, velvety stomach like the one on Tavros. Yeah, just like that; the one you never got to touch until after he died, and then it just wasn’t right.

There’s a hand in your hair, and the contact abruptly snatches you out of the quagmire of realized daymares and truly guilty pleasures.

“How does hair even grow this way?”

You’re silent.

“Motherfucking miracles.” His voice is mockingly reverent, and he’s got that ironic half-smirk on his face that drives you insane.

You force the greatest amount of slime you possibly can into his mouth, and it almost seems as though his stomach is visibly growing. Dave tugs your hair in protest, but you’re too distracted by the spectacle of his swollen gut to be provoked by the sting.

“None of this is breaking down all thorough; you’re just up and holding onto it!”

You speculate that humans can’t properly digest sopor slime. That’s what it looks like, at least. 

“Well, shit. Am I going to explode?” He’s adopted an eerily calm tone -- unconcerned.

“No worries, that’s the part what we’re gettin’ to.” 

The lingering pies steadily disappear, leaving empty tins behind as proof of their existence.

You sit him up, and stay poised in his lap as you wrap you arms around him. It’s not meant to be a hug -- just a grim form of measurement. You cannot clasp your hands together, but your fingers meet, and that’s enough of an accomplishment.

“Everything’s just a little slower, and brighter. I guess it is kind of like being at the carnival.”

“No, bro, it’s not even close.”

“I think I already apologized.” He’s not even the slightest bit defensive; just reflecting on the memory.

“I think I already gone and forgave you.” 

It’s the truth, to a certain extent -- but the toxins boiling inside you, deep below the surface parts, will always be there. 

***

It’s a few days later -- literally not even a week -- when you next encounter him. You glance at each other without betraying a different form of recognition. He’s just as slick and cool as ice, but there’s something amiss. Just a nearly indiscernible shift in his flawlessly confident saunter. 

Before the moment is gone, and he passes you by completely, you stretch out your arm and grasp his stomach. The swelling is gone, and there’s not a hint of firmness there. 

Not even a hint. 

He shakes off the fingers that pinched him and continues on his way with an incensed flush branded across both cheeks. It’s the first time you’ve seen him genuinely, ‘off-the-record’ agitated.

There is no more sopor, but that’s okay. 

You’ve got a new ‘miracle’ to contend with.


End file.
